


to play (with) god

by apeirophobia



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kink Meme, Lex Hurts Clark, M/M, Mpreg, Sexual Assault
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 07:26:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6461224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apeirophobia/pseuds/apeirophobia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lex puts into motion a sinister and far-reaching plan to ensure control over Metropolis and--he hopes--the world. Using his own Kryptonite gas on Superman, he has his dirty way with him, and vastly underestimates the consequences.</p><p>Bruce investigates the connection between the assault of a Metropolis reporter and his own son's secrets, while Lex orchestrates a symphony of violence, attempts to predict human nature, and finds he's not the only person playing the long-game. </p><p>Or, Lex needs an heir, and if he has to ignore every warning in Greek mythology and bring down a god to get it, even better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the sins of the father

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everybody! This is my first foray into the DC fandom, wish me luck! :D
> 
> Inspired by this Lex/Clark prompt bvs-kinkmeme.livejournal.com/804.html?thread=1572#t1572 on the BvS Kink Meme:
> 
> Lex makes his own Kryptonite gas, uses it on Superman, and has his dirty way with him.
> 
> It's just enough gas to keep him weak as a kitten but not knock him out. The things he does can range from freaky science experiments to freaky sex acts.
> 
> And Lex just won't shut up and keeps going on his monologues about having god literally come into his hand.
> 
> Please enjoy! <3

 

His father had always warned him about men from the government. About men who wanted to cut him into little pieces, for their own gain. He never warned him about men like Lex. 

 

(there are no men 'like' Lex, only Lex)

 

And Lex was less a 'man' really, more a boy his own age. Clark has been on the planet three decades and he still has trouble thinking of his peers as a threat. People your own age aren't meant to be terrifying. The kids in school were cruel, sure, but never a threat, not really. 

 

Clark's biggest strength has always been seeing the endless good in people. His biggest weakness has always been seeing the good, even when it's not there. And Clark is not the idealist fool the world (and Perry) thinks him to be (but). He does his research before ever stepping foot in Lex's penthouse. He knows Lex has ADD, is lactose intolerant, and that he was raised by an abusive single father (and a string of nannies). He knows Lex creates more charities than most other moguls even donate to.

 

Clark's mistake is not, seeing the good, but not the bad. It's seeing the good, but not the madness.

 

Who was he to know that Lex had been planning this for months? Who was he to know that this (that  _he_ ) is the reason Lex planned the gala in the first place? Empathy is a fog that blinds Clark to Lex's true nature until it's too late. Humility is a curse that blinds Clark to his own importance.

 

Until he finds himself semi-conscious, sprawled across the floor of Lex’s study, broken glass scattered around his slack hand, tendrils of green smoke still dissipating into the air. The restraints Lex twists around his wrists are just for show, Clark thinks he probably couldn't lift his arms if he tried. The florescent desk-light above him emits an eerie green hue and his head spins. He hasn't felt this sick since his face met the floor of Zod's spaceship. He doesn't think he's ever felt this weak, even in the dreams where he relives his father's death over and over.

 

He feels Lex's fingers against his skin and realizes he’s no longer clothed. He feels Lex’s fingers against his skin and doesn't understand. Lex had said he wanted to talk about Superman’s upcoming hearing (Perrie had simply wanted Clark to write about Lex’s contributions to rehabilitation programs for refuge children from war-torn countries). That’s the last thing Clark remembers—walking into the study—Lex’s hand on Clark’s shoulder, and a smirk on his face. Later, he'll attribute his confusion to the drug in his system, to the paralyzing radiation in the lights. But right now, under harsh lights and Lex's hands, he just attributes it to shock. Clark blinks up at Lex, trying to meet his gaze, trying to breathe, as his vision swims and Lex’s eyes burn.

 

Lex looks angry, like Clark’s struggle incenses him. He rakes his nails across an abdomen that only looks human—that houses organs unique to Clark alone—and grins when they leave welts in their wake. Grins wider when the welts don’t fade. He digs his fingers into the soft skin of Clark's inner thigh and watches Clark’s face for a reaction, enjoying Clark’s noise of discomfort immensely. From a scientist’s perspective, Clark-Superman-Kal is a fascinating specimen. From a man’s perspective (of which Lex is the only one in the room) Clark is a beautiful specimen. Clark stares at the ceiling above him and blinks. ‘The Garden of Earthly Delights’ stares back at him, depictions of suffering and torment mirrored on the study ceiling.

 

"I didn't know gods could cry," Lex says, and it comes out as more of an observation than a sneer. He brushes his fingers softly down Clark’s cheek—a mockery of affection—and they come away wet. Kryptonian salt tastes little different from human when he tastes for himself (though it tastes slightly of fear, and he ignores Clark’s shudder as he licks his face). 

 

Clark can feel the satin of Lex’s suit brushing against his hip as Lex kneels between his legs, and tries to ignore where this is heading. Tries to gain purchase against the hardwood full but his hands spasm uselessly, his fingers carding through the plush rug with nothing to brace against. His body, the very thing he uses on a daily basis to save lives, fails to protect him as Lex pushes his thighs apart easily. Clark wonders if he never saved anyone, if he had never stopped running, if he had just held his breath on the school bus would he still have ended up here. His father said he should have let them drown, but that was never an option for Clark. He had as much choice to save them as he did to fight Zod and protect his planet. Clark Kent was raised to be good-hearted but Kal-El, Kal was born to save a people. Clark thinks of Bruce Wayne, down the hall, swirling champagne in his glass and making small talk at the gala. He thinks of the secret hidden in the CEO's scars, and the indignation in his eyes when Clark questioned his alter-ego's actions. He wonders if Bruce thought that he was just Clark--completely human reporter in desperate need of saving--would he help him. He wonders--darkly--if Bruce would leave him to his fate regardless. Clark looks desperately towards the library's doors and thinks,  _maybe he already has_.

 

"Weeping for your lost humanity?” Lex asks as he breaches Clark with two fingers and Clark lurches at the sudden intrusion. Lex enjoys the struggle, pressing down on Clark's chest to still his movements, and thrills at how easily he overpowers the god. He presses further into the alien, and marvels at the utter misery on Clark's face. Admires the way his eyes fill with tears, just like a real person. 

 

"No," Clark whispers when Lex lets up on his throat, "For yours,” and Lex laughs in response, a harsh, hysterical thing that is nonetheless tinged with joy. He twists his wrist and Clark makes a broken noise that might have been " _stop_ " or " _please_ " if it'd had more breath behind it. He does it again and Clark kicks out in response--it's an instinct; human strength made superhuman through endorphins and pain--but even in his weakened state he cracks the foot of Lex's desk. He also cracks his cuneiform. It's the first bone Clark's ever broken.

 

Lex watches as Clark's face pales, his eyes rolling back in his head as his body registers a response as rare as  _shock_. "You really are a fascinating find," Lex muses, like it was him in the cornfield thirty years ago, like Clark is something to be labeled and chronicled (like Clark is _his_ ). He begrudgingly turns down one of the lamps. He has Metropolis and Gotham's finest indulging at his open bar and the world's hero beneath him, he won't risk spoiling his evening's entertainment by having Clark fall unconscious. 

 

"You know," Lex tells Clark matter-of-factly, returning to his earlier position of kneeling between Clark's legs (and he's glad to note that--despite the kryptonite gas being administered nearly twenty minutes ago--Clark has still not regained enough muscle control to draw his knees back together), now declad of his suit, "This isn't really rape."

 

He presses himself against the length of Clark's body, one hand propping him up, the other resting lightly on Clark's throat--feeling the torpid beat of his heartbeat beneath his palm, and says, "You're not human, therefore asserting my will over yours violates no human spirit," and it's clear that he truly believes what he's saying; that he's not simply monologuing to sooth his own conscience (Lex has no conscience).

 

Clark shakes his head, partially out of dissent and partially in an attempt to dislodge the green fog that seems to cling to everything in his mind. He's not sure if Lex is making less sense, or if Clark's just understanding less. "It's still wrong," he says, and he can't believe he's debating the semantics of his own _rape_ with a mad man, "I'm still...I'm a person."

 

Lex makes a noise like he's humoring an unintelligent child, and says, "The rules regarding the ravishment of mortals by the divine were always pretty ambiguous. Discussion of gods ravished by man? Nearly non-existent," and moves the hand that was previously pressing against Clark's windpipe up until it covers his mouth, "For a reason."

 

Lex feels Clark's teeth against his palm when he pushes inside. He imagines that the alien must feel the pain of the intrusion amplified even with his dulled senses. Lex knows that Clark has never done this before (Lex knows everything). "I wonder," he muses, rolling his hips and pressing ever harder on Clark's face, fingers that end lives daily leaving bruises on the face of justice, and says, "The Genesis chamber told me a little secret about you."

 

Watching the fear in Clark's wide eyes color with understanding is almost more satisfying than being balls-deep in Metropolis' golden boy ( _almost_ ). Clark underestimated Lex's intentions. He thought Lex meant to study him (after he fucked him, of course), probably thought he intended to weaponize a weapon. But no. Lex is not a man of _simple_ indulgences. He is the main course--he thrives on results, not consolation. He fucks with as much intention as he fucks over. His father. The senator from Kentucky. Clark Joseph Kent. If there's something Lex wants--something Lex needs--then he doesn't get sidetracked. He wouldn't be sweat-slick skin and unbecoming friction with some boy from Smallville if it wasn't a vital, poetic part of the plan.

 

"That part comes later, Kal," Lex says with a laugh that turns into a moan, and he cuts himself off to ask,  “Do you know what I need?” and sinks his teeth into Clark's perfect shoulder since he isn't expecting a response (Lex's hand in Clark's mouth, shoved up to the knuckle, pretty much prevents that). Misery bleeds from the tension in Clark's body--somewhat _literally_ when Lex pulls away--and Lex feels more than hears the choked sobs coming from the boy beneath him. It's as much--and as apt--an answer as anything. 

 

Clark’s wet, unfocused gaze darts around the room wildly--looking fruitlessly for help--and his face is such a beautiful picture of devastation that Lex wants to never forget this moment.  _A god made helpless_ , he thinks, and the sense of euphoria in his veins can't be entirely attributed to the orgasm crashing through him. Clark is hot and tight around him and Lex has never felt this high on victory, not even when he killed his father. Lex can feel Clark's temperature rising--the alien's body burning in all the places they touch--and he knows that means the drugs are wearing off and he doesn't have much time, but-- It feels like everything falling into place. Lex rests his forehead on Clark's shaking chest and grins.

 

Clark doesn't stop crying (which Lex thinks is a little much, honestly), not even after Lex pulls his fingers back and lets him close his mouth. He just curls inward, now that Lex is not forcing him to lie flat, and presses his face into his bound hands, weeping softly. Lex can barely hear it over the din of the distant gala as he redresses, but he can see the light tremor of Clark's shoulders out of the corner of his eye. He ignores Clark's theatrics--not out of guilt, but out of practicality--straightening his tie and lacing his brogues as if he doesn't have a ruined angel crumpled at the foot of his desk. He can't afford (well, technically he _can_ , but figuratively speaking) to get tear stains on his Brioni suit, not when there's a party to return to and an alibi to create. Lust, success, style, _and_ business, all in one evening. His father would be oh-so-proud.

 

“You won’t even remember this,” Lex says with a sigh, and _that_ gets the obnoxious reporter's attention. Big blue eyes, tear drops clinging to the edges like a fucking Giotto painting, turn to him in confusion, and Lex rolls his eyes. He wonders how much the kryptonite gas is impairing Clark's cognitive functions. Wonders if it's permanent. He certainly hopes not. He needs Superman to be at his best when the Batman kills him in eighteen months. It's only right. Anything else would not be a respectful finish to this symphony he's been conducting.

 

“Neat little trick really,” Lex says, sitting on his haunches so that he's eye-level with the still-cowed god, “Combine the right amount of barbiturates with kryptonite gas and amnesia kicks in when the weakness wears off,” he snaps his fingers and grins. 

 

Clark gives him a skeptical look like he has no idea how Lex would know that. It matters little whether he believes Lex's scientific analysis or not, he'll find out for himself soon enough.

 

“But you’re gonna remember this,” Lex continues, cradling Clark’s lower stomach. Clark holds his breath, trapped between the burn of Lex's hands on his skin and the heat of him inside. He can’t believe that he’ll ever forget this.

 

“You say that like it's a sure thing," Clark says, and thinks, _I would still save you if you were drowning_. Thinks, this is his punishment for failing to be the villain the world expects him to be. This is what he deserves for failing to save his father (for falling in love with humanity and  _failing_ his father).

 

“Oh Kal,” Lex says, “You’re the surest thing of all,” and thinks, _all powerful, all_ _predictable_.

 

"Why do you want to destroy me?" Clark asks, and Lex doesn't know if he's referring to the last half-hour or the next two years. Wonders whether he means Clark Joseph Kent, the human persona or Superman, the false god. He's getting the impression that Clark actually thinks of himself as a person. It's almost adorable. That he doesn't realize he's just an ideal, and Lex is a new era of thought. There's no room for Clark-Kal-Superman in the world of Lex's future (just a critical role in his legacy).

 

"Oh Clark," Lex laughs softly, "This isn't an act of destruction," and thinks _not yet_. Thinks of the day he'll have Superman's head on a spike and the world at his feet. But right now, right now he has Clark exactly where he wants him, a vessel for his own triumph. A god among men and Lex has reduced him to a common whore, and he might not have the world in his hands, but he does have the future.  Clark looks down at his bruised wrists, unrestrained now but no less _bound_ and Lex knows he understands. Knows he can probably feel it already--taking hold--tarnishing him from the inside. They both know Clark is a Genesis chamber all of his own. 

 

Lex touches Clark's forehead softly, the benediction of a demon to a saint, and says, "This is an act of creation."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! :] Please leave kudos/comments if you enjoyed it, I love to hear what you thought! <3
> 
> \-- follow me on tumblr (I'm "gonnabreakhisheart" on there) if you'd like to be friends! <3 or would like to talk fandom and fics! <3


	2. a legacy of ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everybody who commented on the first chapter, you're all the best! :] I'm sorry this update took so long! Hope you enjoy <3

 

Awkwardness has a merit all its own, Lex thinks, when he returns to the gala, ten minutes after Clark loses his fight with consciousness (and Lex had watched the alien's eyes slip closed, like the weight of Lex's revelation had exhausted him; knowledge is such a bane to the innocent, and Clark fakes innocence very very well). When no one expects you to have any finesse--a lack of expectation that Lex has, unintentionally but no less strategically, cultivated over the years--no one notices when you're subtle. Blending seamlessly into the background of the party (his _own_ party, and _that_ takes true talent), Lex purposefully bumps his elbow into Senator Adrian Crawford's while reaching for the same flute of champagne. Crawford. Barrows. Finch. They're all the same--with their dirty secrets and their flawed intentions. The result is still the same--bent wills and nervous smiles. Money and madness can achieve so many things; from pointless acquiesces of social niceties, to a god at his mercy and the world at his feet. It's just subterfuge wrapped in subterfuge, and when Crawford's fingers retreat from the champagne glass, Lex smiles. 

 

"My mistake, Senator," Lex says, and the tremor in his hands, the crack in his voice, is only half-faked; a facade made from giddiness cloaked in adrenaline.

 

"Mr. Luthor," the Senator says with a nod of apology--of reverence--and isn't that a change from his teenage years, "The man of the hour," he says, and Lex thinks,  _you have no idea_.

 

Senator Crawford used to do business with his father, now Lex knows all his secrets. He knows that Senator Crawford is a very bad man. He knows that what Lex had spread out on the floor of his study just a half hour ago would be right up the Senator's alley. Except--he knows the Senator likes them a little younger, and a little more lucid. Lex thinks of the pictures he knows Crawford has on his phone--locked under far too weak a password--that are more incriminating than any file Lex has buried under military-grade encryption (both Lex and Adrian have videos of teenage boys in their phones, for very different reasons). He thinks of the power of money, the beauty of power, and the power of a name. That he can get bad men to fake morality for his affection; that he can get the worst of men to support charity, and the most powerful of men to kneel. If Clark is a god, then Lex is a benevolent king. He and Crawford might both be mortals, but he is intellectual royalty in comparison to Adrian's plebeian simpleton. One of the greatest disappointments in life--Lex has found--is that bad men are often stupid men. Having to associate with both types far too often is a constant frustration. Being neither, Lex finds it hard to relate. Lex finds it hard to relate, period.

 

Lex follows the senator's distracted gaze, to find it resting on a boy holding a glass of champagne that he doesn't look old enough to drink. The boy has dark eyes framed by darker curls, and perfect tan skin (and at least the senator is consistent in one thing, even if it's not foreign policy). Lex would bet his fortune that the boy's skin is not so perfectly unmarred under his bespoke suit. Lex's mouth pulls tight--in what could have been a smile fifteen years ago--and he thinks  _I'm going to destroy you._

 

"A toast?" Lex says brightly, feigning casualness in the face of sudden blinding rage. The part of Lex that was once thirteen and scared, aches in almost empathy. He was never so lost and helpless as the boys in Crawford's bed (he was never so young as the boy with the champagne). They have no recourse, no means of ever getting even. Lex evened his own playing field with opportune advantage and household accidents. His father drank too much and had the floors waxed too often. A tragedy of circumstance more than anything. Circumstances that could have been easily prevented, like a bruising hold--his father's fingers pressed hard against Lex's face--that could have let go just a second sooner. If there'd been no damning evidence, no physical reminder, then it's like it never happened at all. Lex sympathizes more with the boys he's seen Crawford's files--a simpleton's hapless victims--than with Clark's parody of tears. Clark is a virgin sacrifice after-all, blood split on an alter of greater things. The bruises will fade before he can begin to piece together the gaps of his evening, so what even is there to sympathize with?

 

He lifts his glass, laughing openly, and doesn't explain the joke.

 

"To the memory of fathers," he says with a smirk, "And to the potential of heirs," and Senator Crawford raises an eyebrow.

 

"To your future?" the Senator asks, no doubt trying to figure out which category Lex falls into. And the sad thing about Crawford is, he always shows his cards.

 

"To  _the_ future, Senator," Lex says, and his tone is only slightly mocking, "And all the trees we might fell."

 

He clinks his glass against a dumbfounded Crawford's. It is not critical that Crawford--that anyone--understand Lex's machinations. It is only important how smoothly they fall when he raises the axe.

 

* * *

 

Clark is lying on the floor of one of the guest rooms in Lex's penthouse. He knows this before he ever opens his eyes, because he can feel the thick eggshell carpet through the back of his thin undershirt. He does not know where the rest of his clothes have gone (he does not know why he is here). He can feel vibrations through the floor boards, the scratch of stiletto heels against marble tile and the rhythmic thud, down the hall. He was...at a party, that's all he can recall. His mind is blank. His head hurts. Everything hurts.

 

Part of him  _knows_ what happened--even if he can't remember--but there's a fog, obscuring his memory. Who? Why? _How?_ He's leaning against the wall and his head is spinning. There's someone standing over him, not-quite but almost touching his shoulder, like they're torn between hesitance at startling him, and concern for his well-being. He looks up.

 

"--do you need me to call someone?" Bruce Wayne asks, concern etched into the lines of his handsome face. Clark blinks slowly at him. He feels drunk, or how he'd imagine what being drunk feels like. He wonders how bad he must look to put that tone in Bruce Wayne's voice. Clark digs his socked feet into Lex's high-piled carpet and considers just flying away. There's a window along the wall behind Bruce, and Clark thinks if he's _just_ fast enough--

 

He looks at Bruce for a minute, "I feel like I've got hit by a truck," he says and laughs. Laughs a little too hard, and Bruce looks at him in concern. He knows Bruce is Batman, but Bruce doesn't know that he is Superman, and he finds it all just a little hysterical.

 

"I can take you to the hospital," Bruce says, still using that 'kind' voice and Clark is already shaking his head, "...can't do that," he says; he's not currently coherent enough to be articulate but he can recall his parents' mantra of "no hospitals" from when he was a child. He's pretty sure a blood test is a standard part of a rape kit (and his mind stutters on that connection before going blank, blissfully on autopilot).

 

Next thing he knows, he's throwing up in the car park.

 

"My friend, had a little too much to drink," Bruce tells the valet with a charming smile, one arm around Clark's shoulders as he helps him into a Lamborghini, the other slipping the attendant a hundred dollar bill. "Apologies for the trouble," he says with a nod before climbing inside.

 

Clark hates that Billionaire Bruce Wayne™ is passing him off as his fun for the night, his _date_. He wonders how much of this will get back to his boss. Clark leans his forehead against the cool passenger-side window and tries to get his vision to stop swimming.

 

Clark opens his eyes minutes later--pries his eyelids open, more like--and can't remember when he'd closed them. He's losing time and memories. "I think my foot is broken," he says, as if it's pertinent information. As if, if he doesn't tell Bruce in that moment, then that too will slip away. It's not though (slipping away, that is), not like the injuries he sustained before he had a suit that is tougher than he is. Even the cuts and bruises from his first fight with Zod faded and healed in a couple of hours. And yet, it's been at least fifteen minutes since whatever happened to Clark's foot 'happened' and it's still screaming in pain.

 

"Listen, kid," Bruce says, and Clark notes that it's _kid_  (concerned) instead of _son_ (condescending), "They really did a number on you," and Clark thinks  _they...?_

 

"They?" he asks, because the drugs haven't worn off and he has no filter. He sees Bruce's lips purse, a dark disapproval flashing across his face, and Clark doesn't understand. It hadn't occurred to him that it could be more than one person. It hadn't occurred to him that it could be a _person_ at all. Somebody hurt him-- _obviously_ \--but until today he didn't think any human was capable of causing him true harm. He also didn't think any drugs could stay in his system this long.

 

"What do you remember?" Bruce says, keeping his eyes on the road. His eyebrows look angry ( _and handsome_ his mind supplies unhelpfully, and Clark has to remind himself that this man wants to lock him up--wants to destroy him--if he knew what is in Clark's cells) and Clark's stomach does an odd lurch, like it remembers something the rest of him forgot. There's something in his cells. The ghosts of a thousand Kryptonians...the potential of an entire race...hope. _No_ , Clark thinks, _think deeper_.

 

"I remember arriving at the gala," Clark says slowly, and each memory is like trying to take a full breath on Zod's ship, "I remember being greeted by Mr. Luthor."

 

"You don't remember how you ended up in that guest room?" Bruce presses, and it feels like an interrogation. He thinks of the laughable restraints the Sargent put him in when the army tried to interrogate him. He remembers tearing them apart like they were made of paper. He remembers smiling across the table at Lois (he remembers how easy it was to trust humans, back then). He thinks of how, right now, if Bruce new Clark's whole identity--if he decided the world would be better off without Superman in it--Clark'd be powerless to stop him. _Is this what it feels like to be human?_ Clark thinks, staring out at the passenger window as the Metropolis night blurs past,  _To be at the mercy of violent whims?_

 

Clark consciously loosens his death-grip on the door-handle, lest his strength return suddenly and he accidentally leave a permanent impression of his Kryptonian finger-prints on Bruce's hundred thousand dollar car.

 

"I don't think I got there under my own merit," Clark mutters to himself, and winces at how it sounds (terrible--and exactly how he meant it). The last thing he ever wanted was to be found, rumpled and dazed, in a darkened penthouse bedroom by  _Bruce Wayne_ of all people.

 

"Hey, hey, it's gonna be okay," Bruce says, his voice uncharacteristically Dad-like, and Clark doesn't point out that _no_ , it's not going to be okay. He only believes soothing nonsense when it comes from Lois or his mother. His mother, whom he really wishes was here right now, except not really, because it'd break her heart to see him like this, and he doesn't want that, he never wants that.

 

"Somebody drugged me, at the party," Clark says, deadpan, because he does not want to be here either--with shaking fingers and fractured memories and a blinding migraine--having this conversation, "And I can't even remember their face." 

 

"There were a lot of bad men at that party," Bruce says, "High-rollers aren't used to hearing the word 'no'...and a lot of Lex's investors are interested in the wrong side of science," and he says it like someone's personally offended him, like there's a history there.

 

"You were at that party too," Clark says, his mouth working without his brain, and the words are out before he's fully considered their connotation.

 

Bruce focuses on the road and says nothing.

 

* * *

 

 "What does he have on you?" Lex asks when he finally corners the brown-eyed boy in the bathroom, fifteen minutes after Bruce walked Clark to his car, and ten after Lex lost Crawford to the open bar.

 

The boy gives Lex a calculating look, eyes just a little too old when he says, "Don't you know?" and Lex thinks of blackmail and emotional manipulation (Lex thinks of being fourteen and suffocating). He thinks of video files that he could easily destroy...that could easily destroy Crawford. He thinks, perhaps, if he does neither he could get everything he ever wanted.

 

"Ah, smart young man," Lex says with almost a predatory smile, "You must be Matz Fostre," he says, tracing an imaginary line from the corner of one of the boy's kohl-lined eyes to the bottom of his lower lip and--to his credit--the boy doesn't flinch at the threat.

 

"Smart enough to know that's not a compliment," Matz says, leaning against the wall, leaning as far  _away_ from from Lex as possible, but affecting a casual stance like he has all the time in the world. Lex marvels at what a monster seventeen is. Beautiful in its youth, beautiful in it's vulnerability.

 

"You know the guest-list was 21+ for a reason, right?" Lex says scathingly. He doesn't really expect a response, just like he didn't expect his business partners to flaunt their boy-toys at his highly prestigious charity gala.

 

"And the age of consent is eighteen," Matz replies sardonically--with an eye-roll that would get him smacked in Catholic school--"And aren't we all just a bunch of rules followers?" he says provocatively, and Lex doesn't know if he wants to kiss him or put his face through the counter. Teenage victims of human trafficking are so...difficult. Most people would feel sympathy (Lex is not most people).

 

"You think I'm a monster," Lex says, half amused and half exasperated. Amused because Lex is not _the_ monster Matz assumes him to be (and exasperated because Matz has _no idea_ ). _Stupid child,_ Lex thinks. Except Matz isn't stupid; ignorance and innocence are just two things Lex has always (unfairly) equated with a lack of intellect. No one, not even Finch, has an accurate idea of the lengths--of the _depths_ \--to which Lex which will go, to which Lex has already gone, to reach his goals.

 

"What I think," Matz says, his eyes raking over Lex in a way that he's learned keeps him alive, "Doesn't matter all that much," and he meets Lex's eyes in a challenge. Lex knows that he could get the boy to tell him any of Adrian Crawford's darkest secrets for the right price (if that's what Lex wanted, what he needed, if there were any Lex didn't already know). But why prioritize bringing down a man when Lex's sites are set on a god? Because Matz Fostre would do anything to stay alive, and that makes him dangerous (and Lex likes dangerous). Because Clark might be bested for the evening, but he is far from conquered. Because Crawford's lust has created a perfect weapon, and Lex would be a fool not to take advantage. 

 

"Oh! But it does," Lex says, and his condescendingly tone clashes with his genuine smile. Matz Fostre has been on Adrian Crawford's (and thus, Lex's) radar for nine months. Over six months in Adrian Crawford's bed and still alive (a feat that can not be said of a long list of buried adolescents). Seventeen and still able to parry (seventeen and still able to  _feel_ ). Lex is impressed (and a little disgusted) at the resilience of Matz's humanity.

 

"I'd like you to work for me," Lex says and Matz freezes. Hope from fear to hesitance to horror flickers across his young face and Lex thinks, _no wonder_   _Crawford likes him so much_.

 

"Oh?" says Fostre, and Lex knows he wants to take a step back, but Lex has been trapped between the wall and the marble vanity. Lex's fingers encircle Matz's wrist, trailing over the three white-gold bracelets that line his arm, hiding scars that are too fresh to wrap. Lex drags a nail across newly ruined skin and Matz hisses out a breath.

 

"I can offer you your freedom," Lex says, and now there's true fear in Matz's face (now there's _hope_ ). His eyes search Lex's face, desperate to know this isn't some sort of game. Lex's response is a hard stare. He presses his nails in slightly harder and Matz's eyes water.

 

"What do you want me to do?" Matz says, blinking rapidly, and there's a shakiness to his voice. Matz is not in control (Matz has never been in control) and he'll do good to remember it (in the coming months, Lex will make sure that he does).

 

"I want you to come and live with me," Lex says slowly, "In the aftermath of Senator Crawford's untimely death," and smirks when Matz's eyes widen in realization.

 

"You--," Matz cuts himself off with a nervous purse of his lips, and turns his face away from Lex, considering his next words. He is the unwilling ward of one of the most powerful men in Metropolis, being offered sanctuary by the son of one of the most powerful men in the world. He is not an idiot, he knows there is a price to everything. But he has no good options (he's not sure he has _any_  options) and there is so much he doesn't want to know.

 

"I trust you know what you're doing?" Matz asks instead, turning back to face Lex, and this time there is no waver in his voice. It's not a question really--Matz hasn't trusted anything or anyone since he was eleven years old--it's an answer. It means,  _I know you've done this before_. It means,  _I'm in_. 

 

"Don't worry your pretty little head," Lex says condescendingly, "Victory is my domain," and it's as much a proclamation as a promise. _Over gods and men alike,_  Lex thinks, and wonders for how long Matz Fostre will be useful. Pawns are still pawns, after-all, no matter how pretty they are.

 

"Sic semper tyrannis, Alexander," Matz says, resigned to the unpredictable chaos that is his life, and Lex's eyes alight in gleeful excitement.

 

He thinks that Matz might just be a man after his own heart. If he had one, that is.

 

* * *

 

Clark sits in the dark of his and Lois' apartment, hair wet from a bath and cellphone in hand, considering being immensely pathetic. Lois is on assignment two states over, and he knows she'd be on the first plane back to Metropolis if he asked, but he can't seem to make himself call.  _Lois loves you_ , Clark tells himself, but he can't bring himself to inconvenience her--can't shake the feeling that what he wants doesn't matter.

 

He doesn't know why he is crying, but he can feel this deep misery connected to memories he doesn't have, and it comes out as tears streaming down his face. He rest his head in hands and tells himself that everything will make sense tomorrow, that this night is something like a horrible dream he'll wake up from. Every moment he can feel more certainty slip away; when he first got home he could remember speaking with Bruce at the gala, now he can barely remember arriving. When he washed the physical evidence away, he knew he forfeited the opportunity to press charges, but without an idea of what had transpired, what was he to do? Going to the police is a privilege of normal people anyway, and he knows there are many people who wouldn't consider him a persona at all. He rests on the sofa, leg stretched out in front of him, propped up on the coffee table, as dawn begins to peak through the east windows. As the first rays of light reach him, he can feel his foot slowly begin to heal. Maybe when the bruises fade he can forget this (whatever _this_ is) ever happened.

 

"This isn't the worst thing that's ever happened to me," he tells himself, pressing a throw pillow over his face, because even having all the lights in the apartment turned out can't seem to quell his headache. He thinks of the loss of his father, and the loss of the last Kryptonians two years ago. "I'll survive this too," he tells himself, but it's a hollow comfort. He knows the drugs must be clearing from his system, because he can hear everything (he can hear someone shut their car-door two streets over, he can hear his downstairs neighbor roll over in her sleep, and he feels nine years old again), but the bruises around his wrists still haven't faded.

 

Someone had sex with him. Without him. It's an odd sensation, knowing what must have happened but having no recollection of it. Clark tries to arrange the facts of the evening in a way that make a whole picture, but it never adds up, no matter how he tries. Maybe when he feels better--maybe when Lois gets home--things will make more sense.

 

Bruce had asked him if he'd be okay on his own, when he'd dropped Clark off in front his building. And it's worth a laugh, the man who brands people feeling _sorry_ for you ( _Batman_ feeling sorry for _him_ ). He's sure that as soon as Bruce dropped Clark off at his apartment he went out once more to "help" the police. Superman may be an obsession for Bruce Wayne, but Clark Kent is just a footnote. Clark is immensely grateful to be so forgettable. He's not sure he wants anyone to look at him ever again.

 

Clark cancels the call and finally gives into sleep, one hand still on his phone and the other unconsciously resting on his stomach.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! :] Please leave kudos/comments if you enjoyed it, I love to hear what you thought! <3
> 
> \-- follow me on tumblr (I'm "gonnabreakhisheart" on there) if you'd like to be friends! <3 or would like to talk fandom and fics! <3


	3. a pyre for the person you used to be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely comments on the last chapter! :] They always make my day!
> 
> Hope you enjoy! <3

 

Bruce Wayne grips the steering wheel loosely as he speeds through Gotham's packing district, his tightened jaw the only outward sign of his inner turmoil. He's supposed to be in a meeting right now--something about reparations and disability payments and it's all very important--but instead he keeps going over the gala in his mind; surveying the crowd, thinking, _what was out of place?_ The answer is nothing. Nothing was obviously amiss among the gathering of Metropolis' best (and worst) individuals. Nothing that should have prepared him to find the Daily Planet's latest addition in a state of disarray and undress on the floor of Lex Luthor's guest room.

 

Bruce sighs. The problem with being Batman for so long (twenty years and counting) is that, as he's gotten better at spotting the really bad guys--terrorists, serial killers, and the like--the petty criminals--rapists, thugs, and other domestic scum--have begun to slip through the cracks. Batman used to stop muggings, now he brings down mob bosses. And there are so many criminals among Metropolis' elite that sometimes they cancel each other out on Bruce's mental radar. It's understandable, but unforgivable still (nothing should slip through the cracks). Bruce overlooked a minor detail once. Now there's another headstone in the Wayne cemetery, and an empty spot at Thanksgiving. Two spots actually, when all's said and done. Bruce's oldest son hasn't spoken to him since Jason was buried (hasn't really looked Bruce in the eye since Bruce told him the news).

 

Bruce dropped Clark off at his apartment the night before, and watched him walk shakily past the desk of his lobby and press the call-button for an elevator. Bruce watched until Clark got the door to his apartment open, and thought of his son.

 

His son, who has so much hope in him that Bruce is at once threatened by, and terrified of it. Terrified _for_ him, out in the world where Bruce can't protect him (not that Bruce could ever protect anyone, but it's a lie he likes to tell himself and it gives him comfort until it doesn't). His son, Richard John Grayson-Wayne. Dick Grayson, the child he adopted to heal his own childhood demons, now a young a man out in the world, and a point of vulnerability that Bruce can't strategize around.  Because hope is a by-product of innocence, and innocence is the principle upon which vulnerability is built. His son is Bruce's point of vulnerability. He is vulnerability _incarnate_ , and it terrifies Bruce. After Jason, after the Joker and everything that happened, Bruce used to have nightmares. He used to dream of finding Dick in the rubble of that building as well. Used to dream of finding Dick in the rubble instead. He would call Dick at college--sometimes in the middle of the night--just to hear his voice. Bruce knows he's emotionally distant and suffocating at the same time, but he's been a father for sixteen years, so he thinks he's earned the right to be a little overbearing.

 

Bruce had been twenty-two and eight months the first time he put on the cowl. He was twenty-nine and one month the day his first son's adoption papers went through. Richard Grayson-Wayne already knew how to read, and walk, and spell his name when Bruce brought him home sixteen years ago. But Richard Grayson (newly Wayne) was six years old and he couldn't feed himself (to be quite fair, neither could Bruce, for which Alfred was a _godsend_ ) and he couldn't make the nightmares go away on his own and he didn't talk. Dick knew  _how_ , he just _didn't_ , and Bruce respected that. Respected it in the way only someone who has also lost their parents tragically, can. So Bruce learned how to pack a school lunch (without any of the foods touching) and learned how to make monster-spray, and he waited for Dick to _want_ to talk to him. He learned how to be a father. Bruce's only consolation--now he's living the fallout of all his bad decisions--is that it took him longer to fuck it up than it did to get it right. Now that Dick has a bedroom he never sleeps in. Now that he's stopped coming home for Christmas.

 

Thinking about Dick inevitably leads to thinking about Jason, and Bruce tries to shut that train of thought down. Thinking about his sons...and the different ways he's failed them. He wonders where Clark's parents are, wonders how many parties Dick's been to since they talked last. He wonders if anyone has ever tried to hurt Dick like that, and knows that his son would never tell him, partly out of a misguided attempt to protect Bruce, and partly out of spite. Dick really wasn't ever the partying type anyway, but then again, neither seems to be Clark. For once Bruce is glad his son is in Afghanistan, so he doesn't have to worry about finding him on the floor of some eccentric billionaire's guest room.

 

He pulls over on the side of the road. It's eight a.m. in Kabul, but that doesn't guarantee that his son will answer his call. His son the _soldier_ , Bruce thinks--equal parts rueful and fond--his son the twenty-two-year-old Lieutenant. What was the alias he was going by again...GQ? Bruce thinks. He had insisted that initials weren't a name when Dick had told him--to which  _GQ_ had insisted that most people's fathers didn't go by 'Batman' either. Dick has always been a smart-ass. It's one of the many reasons he's Alfred's favorite.

 

"Hello?" Grayson says cautiously, when he picks up the call. He hasn't forgotten the things his father said to him the last time they spoke. How could he? They're words he'll remember in the back of his mind for the rest of his life. Things that Bruce regretted the moment they came out of his mouth. Things Bruce will regret until the day he dies (and probably even longer).

 

"GQ," Bruce says, the name unfamiliar in his mouth. He knows he could call Dick by his given name, the line is secure enough. But he feels like he doesn't have the right.

 

"Dad," his son says, and the surprise in his voice breaks Bruce's heart a little, "Is something wrong?" he asks, and there's hesitance beneath his words. It's terribly ironic that, after everything,  _Bruce_ is the person that taught his son to swallow his words and sometimes he hates himself for it.

 

"I just...," Bruce trails off. He feels out of breath. His son is almost twenty-three. If Jason were alive, he'd be nineteen today, "I just wanted to see how you were," he says, and waits for his son's answer. It feels like having nothing to lose.

 

"That's classified," GQ says, his tone teasing, and Bruce is overjoyed to receive more than a frosty single syllable response, especially on today of all days. _It's selfish_ , he thinks, to need acceptance and validation from one's own child. And yet...he's a global icon who raised a civil servant. He's an exercise in the eternal conflict of selfishness and selflessness. He's a national tragedy. The billionaire playboy who can't keep his own kids safe. Sometimes he thinks he raised a better kid than he deserves. Sometimes he regrets raising one who's so willing to lay down his life for others. Sometimes...sometimes he's just grateful that GQ is alive and relatively whole, even if he's chosen to be so as far from Bruce as possible.

 

"You know I love you, right?" Bruce asks, and he shouldn't be so uncertain, but he is (he doesn't want to sound desperate, but he is).

 

"I know," GQ says, but it sounds stilted. Like he's barring himself from what his father might throw at him. Like he's afraid of what Bruce might say. When Jason died Bruce didn't just lose his youngest son. Dick lost his younger brother, and Bruce--in his grief--had no appreciation for that loss. Bruce lost his youngest that day, but his actions after Jason's death lost him the both of them.

 

"Be safe, son," he says. He wants to say he's sorry (but he doesn't know if he's capable of that). He wants to say...a lot of things, but doesn't delude himself into thinking he's capable.

 

There's a pause, a contemplating silence, on the other end of the line.

 

"You too, Dad," GQ says, and then--half a moment later--he rushes out "Love you," like he regrets it before the words even leave his mouth, and hangs up abruptly, not wanting to face whatever conversation could come after that admission.

 

Bruce Wayne stares at his phone for a moment before dropping it on the passenger seat. He rests his hands on the car's steering wheel in front of him, and belatedly realizes they're shaking.

 

Sitting in his parked car at quarter past ten at night on the shoulder of a busy highway, Bruce Wayne cries.

 

* * *

 

Clark wakes to sun streaming through the living room's broad windows and Lois running her fingers through his hair. It takes him a moment to orientate himself; to remember how he got where he is. There's a haze at the edge of his memory that's as welcome as it is unfamiliar. He takes refuge in the lack of clarity, not fighting to put last night in clearer focus. Besides, Lois being here means that the threat must be over. If Lois is here than everything is going to be okay.

 

"Hey," Lois says, voice tinged with concern but also love (always love), and Clark can feel worry at the edges of her warmth, a vibration of worry on the edge of her fingertips when she traces his face, and he opens his eyes.

 

"Hey handsome," she says, smile brighter now, and he returns it--slightly dimmed. There's still an ache in parts of him that he doesn't want to think about, but Lois is here now, so how could he do anything but return her love?

 

"You're back, early?" he asks, still a bit slow with sleep and lethargy, just remembering that she'd been away; had been away last night and technically was still supposed to be gone. He wonders why she came back.

 

"Yeah," she says, "I heard rumor that a certain Planet reporter left a prestigious gala with Gotham's most sought-after bachelor last night," and raises her eyebrows curiously, like, _tell me about it_.

 

His brow creases as he thinks hard about the night before, "Did I?" he says, sitting up and clutching his head, "It's all a bit blurry."

 

"What happened Clark?" Lois says, moving to sit beside him, and now there's concern in her voice. Clark can feel her hand on his knee and he takes a deep breath. Lois' hands would never hurt him.

 

"I...," he trails off, lost for words. He has so many things to say and none of them good. No words to make it sound nicer than it is. "I...," he tries again, "...something happened at the gala," he starts, with no idea where the story ends.

 

Lois doesn't say anything, she just runs her fingers over the back of Clark's hand, a silent support. Clark feels her presence like the sun, and it makes him stronger.

 

"Somebody drugged me," Clark says, trying to stick to what he knows (which isn't much) because it's easier that way, stating the facts like they happened to someone else, "I think," he adds, as an accidental afterthought.

 

"You think...?" Lois asks, and her tone is not mocking, just concerned at Clark's seeming lack of certainty.

 

"Yeah, I mean, they did. They must have," Clark says, attempting to pry into memories that aren't there, "I just can't remember it...I came to afterward and I was...hurt and I'd just...I'd totally blacked out." He lets the implications hang there, implications of things he understands but can't yet put into words. Implications of his own weakness, his own infidelity. He glances over, but Lois' face is unreadable to him.

 

"I'm sorry," he says finally, and that seems to shake Lois out of her hesitance, out of her horror.

 

"Oh honey, no," Lois says, kneeling in front of Clark and cradling his face in her hands, "Whatever happened, it's not your fault," and it sounds so much like what Clark desperately _wanted_ to hear that he almost doesn't believe it. It's too good to be true, _Lois_ is too good to be true (to be _his_ ). But there is an earnestness in her face that can't be denied, and when he meets her gaze he finds a depth of love he had only dared to hope for. He lets out a shaky breath and Lois smiles.

 

"But it's not supposed to happen," he says, feeling like he let her down. A myriad of emotions pass over Lois' face at his words, before finally settling on anger, and Clark tells himself that it's not for him.

 

"Clark," she says very seriously, and he's reminded suddenly that she's older than him. Kryptonian years are different from human years, but years of experience matter most of all. Clark doesn't see things--things like age and gender and sexuality--in the same terms that humans do, but he can acknowledge that Lois has the upper hand in terms of emotional maturity. It's why he often defers to her in matters of importance, like now, "Sometimes bad things happen," she says, "And just because we feel like we should have been able to prevent them, doesn't mean they're our fault."

 

She stares into his eyes for a long moment before he nods. He knows what she says is true, but that doesn't mean it's easy to accept.

 

"I love you, Lo'," Clark says, and he hopes it doesn't sound like another apology.

 

"I love you too, Clark," Lois says with a sad smile, her fingers tracing delicately over the healing bruises on his wrists. The rings have faded from purple to yellow-green just in the time since Lois came home. With every minute he soaks up the afternoon sun his bruises look a little paler. Lois' journalist mind is working overtime, going through possible avenues of retribution. She bites her tongue--an action less familiar to her than giving up--not wanting to badger Clark at a time like this. She doesn't have to ask to know going to the police isn't an option. As a human, Lois has always had the advantage of having the law on her side, even when pursuit of a story took her into not strictly legal territory. The past two years have given Lois an appreciation for the secrecy, for the cleverness, that meta-humans must employ to live their lives unharassed. A trip to the hospital could spell the end of Clark's freedom, his blessed anonymity. Before Clark, Lois used to think that every secret was meant to be discovered. Now, now that she knows, now that she _loves_ , she understands that some secrets are meant to be kept.

 

Lois thinks about justice, and about how little she trusts Lex Luthor's business associates, as her touch lingers on a set of half-healed bite-marks on Clark's shoulder. Speaking pragmatically, going up against anyone who's powerful (and malicious) enough to drug and assault _Superman_ is a bit of a losing battle. Lois knows what rich men are like, she knows what powerful men are like. She knows how vicious they get when you bring them to their knees.But the truth is, Lois is a fiercely protective person, and she's never backed down from a challenge yet.

 

"I would have been stuck in the void, for you," Lois says thoughtfully to herself, and gets a rather sleepy "Hmm?" in response from Clark, who's half-dozed from her ministrations, head pillowed in her lap.

 

"When you fought for the world, against Zod," Lois says, "I was willing to be sucked into the infinity zone, in order for you to be able to save the world. And I would have been fine with that," and Clark raises his head to look at her, curiously.

 

"I am just as committed to the better world your parents wanted as you are," she says, and she means _I'm just as committed to **you** , _"But the world doesn't have to be in danger in order for you to ask for help. Call me next time," Lois says, leaning over to kiss the side of Clark's mouth, over nearly faded bruises in the shape of fingertips. 

 

He kisses her back, his hand resting right over her heart. He can feel her pulse, hear the rush of blood beneath his hand. It's a different pattern than his own, but it beats with nothing but love.

 

"What did I ever do to deserve you?" he wonders aloud.

 

"Don't ask trick questions, Kent, it's not fair," Lois says, but her voice is soft. She reaches for his hand on her chest, and tangles their fingers together.

 

And if she clings a little too tightly, he lets her. Because he really needs her to not let go.

 

* * *

 

A private school education with a foster kid desperation, GQ was a mystery always on the edge of Rick Flag's periphery. Rick was aware that his lieutenant was not all that he seemed. No one has fifteen years of combat experience when they're twenty-two, and not even Olympic athletes were as trained. And the thing was GQ liked books and music, he wasn't even prone to bouts of machoism like most guys in the army. So that raised the question, what teenager was trained in multiple types of fighting, all combat weapons, and the basics of combat when they're not even particularly interested in fighting? What parent trains their child for _war_?

 

Ex-victim of trafficking? Enslaved? Possibly a child soldier? Everything--from his bizarre sleeping habits, to his disturbingly high tolerance for pain, to lapses in his knowledge of pop culture--all pointed to GQ having been a child soldier, except his disposition. It was too...kind. Too light-hearted. Hell, he bordered on obnoxiously optimistic sometimes.

 

 _GQ let a butterfly land on his hand once,_ Rick recalls, and honestly it makes him kind of nauseous--to think of how disgustingly innocent GQ must have been before somebody put a gun in his hand. To think of how _young_ he must have been when someone first put a gun in his hand. Rick Flag doesn't make a habit of being sentimental, but he's considering making an exception. And he knows his concern is not entirely altruistic--more than the usual concern a commander should have for his most promising soldier--like he knows the mistake he's been considering making. The debate he's been pretending hasn't been going on in the back of his mind, between risking his job and pursuing what he shouldn't want. 

 

"Who was that?" Flag asks when his lieutenant gets off the phone.

 

"My father," GQ says, surprising them both with his honesty. Most anytime someone asks him a direct question, GQ lies out of habit. He lies about stupid things, innocent things, but the instinct to be untruthful is just too deeply ingrained. Years of lying about where he got his bruises (fighting criminals), where he was the night before (the bat-cave, after patrol), and why he can't go to his friend's birthday party (his father wanted him to run through the training obstacle course, _again_ ), makes it second nature. He's learned to communicate more normally over the past few years, since going to college; between spending time around peers and then joining Flag's team, but years of being Robin takes a toll.

 

Rick pauses, he didn't know GQ had a father. But then, he supposes, that was an odd assumption--GQ is quite young to be on his own. Just because Rick's been on his own since the minute his step-father could legally change the locks doesn't mean every parent's love has an expiration date.

 

"He some big-wig?" Flag asks, "I know not anybody has clearance out here," he says, gesturing to the endless desert around them, their camp the only recognizable structure for as far as the eye can see.

 

GQ shrugged, "My Dad'd get clearance to talk to me if I was on the moon," he says, and laughs kind of ruefully.

 

"It's my brother's birthday today," he says after a moment, and Flag didn't know he had a brother either. Though GQ's ability to function on a team and put up with all the crazy shit their unit was assigned seemed to suggest that he wasn't an only sibling. Only siblings tended to be stubborn and have difficulty taking orders. Flag should know, he is one.

 

And Flag should have picked up the hint that GQ's father called instead, before he asks, "Oh yeah, how old?" and GQ gives him the distinctly past-tense answer, "He would have been nineteen."

 

"I'm sorry," says Flag, and GQ shrugs like it doesn't matter, but it's just the practiced apathy of a child who's seen too much. Losing Jason was only the _worst_ thing to happen to GQ in a long line of things he could have done without.

 

"My brother was murdered a couple of years ago," GQ says, and Rick think it's the most personal information he's ever shared besides basic intake. Rick likes GQ, but he's not sure he knows him.

 

He doesn't say  _sorry_ again, instead he says, "Did they catch whoever did it?"

 

"You know how Gotham is," GQ says, an uncharacteristically cynical edge to his voice. 

 

"Not a lot of faith in the Gotham police department?" Rick asks, not really expecting an answer. He doesn't trust in authority figures either, having had the pleasure of being face-to-face with Amanda Waller on multiple occasions. There's something chilling about being in her presence, and something even more disheartening about knowing that she's just one of the many politicians and district attorneys as amoral as herself, or under her thumb. The only reassurance Rick has is that he knows, deep down, that Waller's intentions are for the greater good. That comfort only extends as far, however, as the knowledge that Waller is perfectly willing to sacrifice him and all his men to further her goals.

 

"Why do you think I joined the military?" GQ says, meaning it as an answer, but it makes Rick think--GQ obviously has a rich father, he could be doing anything else--so why was he  _here?_ With Flag and his team in the middle of _hell?_ It certainly wasn't for scholarship money.

 

"If you want something done right, you do it yourself," Flag says, and when GQ grins he knows he got the answer right. Sometimes Rick finds his competence and his good nature unnerving, and other times he just feels disarmed, like now, by his subordinate's adorableness. GQ's got daddy issues and a dead brother, but he's still the best soldier Flag's seen in fifteen years and four tours.

 

"You know you're my favorite Lieutenant?" he says, and thinks, _try_ _to be professional_ , at himself, exasperatedly.

 

"I'm lots of people's favorite," GQ says with a look like he's telling an inside joke, and Rick stares at his lips and thinks about doing something really stupid.

 

GQ stares at Rick in turn, like he knows something Rick doesn't, and Flag thinks about exceptions.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes, right after Lex's mother died, he'd have these dreams. Dreams that felt so real at the time, they were like memories he'd forgotten. They were simple dreams, nothing supernatural or extravagant, in which he and his mother baked cookies in the penthouse kitchen or went for a walk on the beach, but in these memories they were happy--and they were together. He should have known they were dreams. Things were never that happy--that domestic--in the waking world of his childhood. 

 

 _You're a Prince, Alexander,_ his mother said to him once when he was young enough to believe her but not too young to remember.  _A prince,_  she said, _and one day you'll be a king. One day you'll be **the** king._  And he'd believed her, because why would she lie to him? She was the only person who had ever been kind to him. She was his world, and she gave all for him, even if it was for nought in the end. He was her prince, and what had it gotten him? A kingdom of gold and ashes. Lex is twenty-nine. He is successful, he is rich, and he is older than his mother ever got the chance to be.

 

Lex thinks of last night, and thinks of his own mortality. He thinks of Kal-El's tears and how _real_  he felt beneath him (and maybe Clark is just that _good_ at faking it). Last night he had his reasons, but now he feels...edgy. He'd call it guilt if he thought he was capable, but Lex has always prided himself on being aware of his own short-comings, and the ability to feel guilt isn't one of them. Besides, everything is going according to plan (of course it is) it just feels differently than Lex thought it would. He feels...more than he thought he would. Clark is just a mistake, he tells himself. An attempt at an alien messiah the world only thinks it wants (thinks it _needs_ ). But last night, under Lex hands...Lex has always appreciated beauty, even if he so often detests the form it takes. Lex thinks of the broken whine Clark let out when Lex drug his teeth down the alien's perfect throat, and he wonders if the twist in his gut at the memory is a misfire of hormones or an aberration of human emotion. 

 

Clark is oh-so-beautiful and Lex--Lex doesn't stay behind the velvet ropes of life, he longs to touch (and touch he does). Lex wrote a political symphony the first time he saw Clark Kent's face. Unfortunately for the other boy it turned out to be a tragedy. Unfortunate, for both of them. Lex is always right. Lex is always _in_ the right. Might is right like money is power and just because Lex is always on the winning side doesn't mean he's always happy. Control is a control freak's worst enemy. Lex is facing a lonely life of victory and he wouldn't have it any other way because he...can't. Clark is hope and love and it threatens everything that Lex has built inside his fortress of politics. Hope can't be controlled. Clark is _potential_ incarnate and Lex has to destroy him. They all have parts to play. Just because Lex is writing the story doesn't mean he's any less bound. Bound by fate, bound by purpose. Bound by artistic integrity. Lex is what Lex is. Lex is what he was always meant to be. He is Helena's son. He is his father's antithesis. Lex is everything, shaped by the mold that all of life's blows built. Forged by his father's hand and his mother's dreams. Except his father is dead and his mother no longer dreams. By the time his father killed her, she had lost the ability.

 

Now Lex dreams of a child with blue eyes and dark red hair. He dreams of a bell ringing in the dark and metal around his wrists and Superman's funeral. He dreams of the future.

 

Lex glances the clock above the fireplace. It's a little past four in the morning. _Speaking of the future_ , he thinks, flipping through his phone before his fingertips land on a familiar face.

 

"Hello?" a man with an Irish lilt answers after two rings, his voice muffled with sleep.

 

"Evening, Sebastian," Lex says with a smile, "I'm calling about a favor."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! :] Please leave kudos/comments if you enjoyed it, I love to hear what you thought! <3
> 
> \-- follow me on tumblr (I'm "gonnabreakhisheart" on there) if you'd like to be friends! <3 or would like to talk fandom and fics! <3


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